Glamping Is an Emotional Reset We All Need To Experience

Camping, glamping, getting away from my computer, my stress, my pure anxiety ridden corpse—didn’t seem like something I needed but oh boy, won’t this essay be a testament to getting away.

When the beginning of the pandemic happened (and even before), working from home felt like a novelty—like going to Grandma’s house where you know you’ll be treated like a crystal doll. Something that felt like a luxury, being able to roll out of bed in whatever state of dress you were and the concept of master of my own domain gave way to what felt special about working from home. I felt it too. Waking up to crisp sunlight pour through my terracotta curtains, sliding the laptop onto my lap whilst just my face pokes through the matching comforter. I now know why they call it a comforter. Weeks one through nine, working from home felt highly empowering—something about being able to do the work, more efficiently, and in the vicinity of my bathroom encouraged the idea of “why did we ever go into an office? It’s so dull, so archaic.” The beauty of being free wilding and getting work complete was all magical. Nine a.m. to five p.m. was work happiness then followed with whatever I needed to get done at home—chores felt easier, grocery shopping during the day felt exhilarating, seeing the sun and breathing the fresh air felt empowering.

Weeks twenty through forty however, began to feel like a nightmare. As the pandemic made it clear that we would never go back into an office—the archaic and dull aspects of office life began to seep into the daily activities of home. The sunlight through the terracotta colored curtains turned gray, the comforts of a comforter felt guilt ridden and almost coffin like. The emotional toil of getting out of bed to then work and repeat squeezed at my heart. Feeling trapped in your home alongside the heavy guilt of leaving home put me between a rock and a hard place.

Personally, I’ve never been one who camps, one who glamps, one who finds solace in outdoor activities for that matter. My personal aversion to bees and mosquitos keep me from fully enjoying any outdoor related activities. But something I could hear ringing through my head as I sat in my 100 square foot room, “you have to leave.” The walls felt as if they were coming in closer, coming in faster, beginning to trap me with the thoughts of reopening and not being quote end quote ready. I had to leave. On a whim, I booked an Airbnb for a place in California not known to me, Granite Bay. If you’re wondering why it sounds familiar, you don’t—a small jaunt outside of Yuba and Sacramento, Granite Bay is home to Trump supporters and Republicans alike. I booked a remote Yurt just 20 minutes outside the main drag of the city, it stood tall down a windy road on a private property surrounded by lush greenery and creeks.


Snaps from the site. The air perfectly wrapping around me in the dead of night—so otherworldly.Snaps from the site. The air perfectly wrapping around me in the dead of night—so otherworldly.

Snaps from the site. The air perfectly wrapping around me in the dead of night—so otherworldly.



Opening the door to the yurt felt like entering a world made for my respite. The air was cool, the surrounding quiet, my steps could be heard echoing along the wood pillars supporting the structure. It took me out of my head for just a moment. But a moment too soon as the banalities of work, paying rent, calling my mom all flooded back—putting my arm in a guilt ridden proverbial twist. “Oh this nice,” my friend says to me checking out the little onset kitchen and outdoor tub. I snapped to and paced around the lodgings with him, looking at all the nooks, crannies, and gems left. A little sign in the main wing of the yurt read, “have fun Anthony, please enjoy the space.” Please enjoy the space I thought, that felt like a lot of pressure. As you can tell, my anxiety was on an all-time high.

The day rolls into night as the soft warmth of the desert air ran around the dew covered grass, sweet smells of eucalyptus trees wafted feverishly in and out of our yurt, the flimsy door frame gently banging back and forth on the door frame. I lay in bed soaking up the deep silence, all could be heard was the croaks of the creek frogs, the distant howls of coyotes, the stream bouncing off the rocks. It transported me to a place in my head where I let go of fear, anxiety—only the sounds of the frogs singing filling my head from spine to crown. How can I describe to you the feeling of outside my body.

1:00am hits, I’m still so entranced by the howls of the locals, the sweet lullabies of the amphibiens making their treks. But the day coming back to reality it hard, going back to anxiety listed with the everyday struggles of getting up and getting what they call, “bread,” I didn’t want it. I wanted to wistfully find myself here everyday, all day, where the air gave me more clarity than a work email detailing out all the problems wrong with my flow. Not triggering at all. At this point, 2:30am is painted across the 90’s digital clock beaming stop light red—silence has finally dawned where all the critters of the night now have ceased their calls. It was me, alone with me, alone with my thoughts. Do I come to pass that this time away from my job, away from my commitments has made me better and more reenergized? In fact, it made me sadder. To make quick relizations of my time for only a day trip truly was not spent doing what was supposed, actually relaxing and giving care to the wind. I fall asleep from sheer mental exhaustion in deafening silence.

As the morning breaks, it’s 8:32 a.m. The birds have started their chorus, peak chirps ring across the trees playing harmonies to me. I sit out on the deck with a cup of tea and truly, I’m in awe. These small portions of my day trip to Granite Bay feel so much grander to me. My friends comes out of the kitchen to join me before we pack up and make our way back to San Francisco. I didn’t want these moments to be taken away from me, no way to access it without coming back, I’m an emotional being clearly. As we pack up the car, I dawn the sounds of the frogs one more time—as if they are saying goodbye to me. This sound really comforted my tired soul, something that I wouldn’t soon forget.

The car begins to pull away with the sounds of the tires crunching and leaving impressions in the gravel—I take one last look behind as the little oasis get obstructed by the trees protecting it. Though this trip was only 24 hours at best, it imparted me with the reminder that these little moments truly transcended me. That life is filled with little moments—whether they’re little bumps in the road or little moments of peace, they should be taken with small bits of space. To overload oneself is a disservice to your personal peace, your singing comfort frogs, and the yurt you call yourself home. To disrupt your personal sanctuary is not what glamping is

// Photography courtesy of Author.

Glamping Is an Emotional Reset We All Need To Experience
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